


look what i've done to you

by watsonaesthete



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cuddles, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Love Declarations, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, The lying detective, bit of smut, ok the tags are becoming ridiculous, the HUG, the neck stroke, they finally work through all that shit thanks, tld fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonaesthete/pseuds/watsonaesthete
Summary: They were still in the middle of the room. Still close. Sherlock's hand was still on John's neck. Still lingering. Still warm on John's skin.God, was he afraid.He was still afraid that John would break free from the embrace, put on that hateful mask of half hearted indifference and bravery and leave the air around Sherlock cold like before. His cheek touched by the harsh, cold air around him instead of the soft grey of John's hair. His lungs empty of his smell.His arms empty and useless.Had it only been a moment?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theblackpearl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblackpearl/gifts).



They were still in the middle of the room. Still close. Sherlock's hand was still on John's neck. Still lingering. Still warm on John's skin.  
  
God, was he afraid.   
  
He was still afraid that John would break free from the embrace, put on that hateful mask of half hearted indifference and bravery and leave the air around Sherlock cold like before. His cheek touched by the harsh, cold air around him instead of the soft grey of John's hair. His lungs empty of his smell.   
  
His arms empty and useless.   
  
Had it only been a moment?   
  
"...but it is what it is."   
  
Why had his voice come out so rough?

 

* * *

  
He felt it was probable, more than a full and hearty 92%, that his heart would rip itself free from its confines behind his lungs and climb all the way through his throat only to be spitted out in front of Sherlock's feet and scream _love love love love love love_.   
  
Wasn't this embarrassing? Him crumpling like a paper crane under the wet soles of passer-bys. But how could he not? When the dull ache he has been so accustomed to since he met him, became a stinging pain when he reached for him and enveloped him to his chest to comfort him, how could he not? When he felt the tortuous firm slide of his palms on his back, his neck, his arm, and wanted his skin to stick to the skin of his palms so that he could be carried with him always, a part of John never to be washed away, how could he not?   
  
He ached and ached and wanted _more_.   
  
"Screw your courage to the sticking place" he thought it went and-   
  
  
"Christ. It shouldn't be."   
  
His first words out, even if almost mumbled. Not stopping now. No more unfinished business.   
  
"It shouldn't be like that, Sherlock.” Firmer now. He should be heard.

He takes his left hand away from his eyes, lets the tears run freely without the barrier in between and musters all his courage in one drawn breath to land his palms on Sherlock. On him. On his sides. His back maybe. His hips? Where does he touch when he is a starving man, so close to a feast, but only able to carefully sip the wine?

 

He puts one hand on Sherlock's left side and places the other softly at the junction of ribs, heart, breast. He is in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, alone in the only place he ever called home without thinking twice about it. He's in the arms of the man he-

 

The man he has always-

 

He minutely turns his head where he can feel the weight of Sherlock's cheek _(oh, but what have I ever done to deserve your feather like manner)_ and slowly raises his head to look at him, eyes still flooding with tears. As if saying “look at me”.

 

Look at me for the first time.

And right when Sherlock's eyes seem slightly unfocused, he speaks.

 

“I am…” A swallow. “So... sorry.” A crack in the voice. The subconscious need to avoid his gaze. A shake of the head. “Look what I've _done_  to you.” His voice a harsh whisper. His left hand finally managing to move from Sherlock’s chest to his neck, cupping the warm flesh the way his own was touched only moments ago. His eyes searching his face, his thumb moving up and down, he speaks again. “Look what I’ve done. I keep hurting you and treating you like a punching bag when you have given me everything, when you…”

 

The crack in his voice is cutting off the breath in his throat. His lungs are suddenly completely empty and the sudden feeling of falling out of a mary-go-round hits him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. _Finish!_

 

“You gave me a reason to live all those years ago, you _still do_  and how am I repaying you?”   
  
The honesty of the words hang between the few centimetres between them, hang over them like a little cloud. Sherlock seems to have finally caught on with all the words just uttered and his instant reaction is to comfort him.

 

“John…”  
  
“No, please. Please.” He pauses, looks at his face and gives him a heartbreakingly sad smile. There one second, gone the next. He glances at the popped blood vessel around Sherlock's left eye and feels his vision blacken. Could the tears penetrate his iris and drown him from the inside?

 

His right hand leaves Sherlock's side and stops at his collarbone, leaving behind the tenderest of touches.  
  
“I am not entitled to hurt you, Sherlock. That's not... that's not what people do to their loved ones. And I do.” The last part fiercely whispered. “I do. So much. You can't…” Another crack in his vocal chords. “I did all this and I never…” He stops himself.

“I'm at fault every time and I hurt you _every_  time like _that_  would help. I am truly, so very sorry for all the pain I've caused you because I-”   
  
“John... please, you don't” His voice is breaking, bit by bit, with every vowel uttered, and his beautiful eyes tear up.

 

 _(oh, but what have I ever done to deserve to see these oceans come to life under a sparkling setting sun)_   
  
“No, let me. Because I should have said some things long ago. And I never found the courage to. What kind of soldier am I?” He chuckles, mirthlessly, trying to make light of the situation he has put himself in.

“You don't deserve someone who can't even utter an.... an 'I love you'. But, christ, am I selfish. And I want to be worthy of you. My heart _aches_ whenever you treat me like I’m worthy of you so, please…” He stops once again, too many words finally let free from the cage of his mouth to wrap his head around. He moves his hands from Sherlock's collarbones to his chest, he pets the cotton of his shirt, curls his fingers against it to trap the warmth generated by the movement in his palms. How he wants to curl against that spot and thrive off of Sherlock's heartbeat.  
  
“John, you _are_ worthy of me. By a long shot”

 

It’s his turn to move now. To touch. So he strokes his hands up and down John’s arms and scratches the fabric on his shoulders. Eyes red-rimmed, he nudges John’s greying head with a forefinger and, whispering in desperation, he dares speak again.

 

“Please... Please… Won’t you let me hear those words you never found the courage to say? Please, John.” And with every plead, their faces get closer, the heat of their breaths between them more dense, no reason for loud words, murmurs are enough.

Now is the time of no return. The beginning and end, the untold finally-

  
“I love you. Christ, I adore you.”

 

He cups his cheeks, and looks into Sherlock's tear-brimming eyes with determination  and so much love.

 

“I've loved you for so long I've gotten used to the constant pain in my chest every damn time I see you or even think of you. I love you. So. Much.”  
  
His last words are almost incoherent as he bumps his forehead on the bridge of Sherlock's nose and then turns his face to rub the crown of his head on his cheekbone, to feel the friction between the skin, a nuzzle so innocent it leaves them both breathless.

 

“Please... Let me....”  
  
“I love you.”, Sherlock says. It’s broken and almost rushed, eyes wide at his own declaration.   
  
John is also caught unawares. He was relatively sure that at least a part of what he felt was reciprocated but this. This had him burning up from the inside out. Starting with his head and face that suddenly felt numb, down to his limbs that felt foreign. He looks at him with a face of shock, eyes blood shot and searching Sherlock’s for an answer to all this. He decides at last to hold his face, cup his cheeks. He hopes the tender gesture communicates all the affection in him because, if not, he is prepared to shred the layers of his flesh and break his ribs like twigs, only to show him his broken heart that has been waiting for this blessed moment, bleeding with every beat into every cavity it can find, filling him.

 

With his pinkies he absentmindedly strokes his jawbones and leans up to Sherlock like searching the light at the end of the tunnel. Millimeters before he touches his lips he stops. His eyes roam the face in front of him. When he sees the purple eyelids closed, he closes the gap between them.

 

He sobs into the kiss. A whimper ripping through his whole body. A drowning man who had left himself at the mercy of the waves, who had shaken hands with death, reaching the surface of the ocean at the eleventh hour.

 

How gorgeous it is to breath again like a newborn. How gorgeous to have a new pair of lungs.

  
He kisses him with all his might, wishing he would never have to stop, until he draws back for breath. _He kissed Sherlock! Told him he loved him! Sherlock said he loves him back! He kissed Sherlock!_

 

Sherlock seems to be reading his mind because he gives him such a charming and hesitant little smile and draws a path with his hands over John's neck, shoulders, arms, the behind of his ears. How could John stop holding the face of this man he so loves?  
  
“Look at you... Look at you…” He pauses to place a kiss on his rose, plump lips. Stops again to look at this beloved face and hide his fingers in the silky curls.

“Look what I’ve done to you.”  
  
“John, please. No. Leave this behind. Please.” He kisses his cheeks, his lips, softly and reverently, like asking 'am I doing this right?' He tries to catch the last of the tears with his thumbs, rub them into John's skin, make them dry faster.   
  
John soldiers up a bit. Sniffs and cups Sherlock's face anew, seemingly ready to inspect it. He slowly brings Sherlock's head close to his lips and kisses his eyelids oh so very gently. The left he kisses twice, lingering. Then his temples (so protruding, too thin), then his lips. Slowly at first. Heated after Sherlock's initiative to introduce a shy tongue. Dear Lord in heaven, will it always be like this? Grasping each other from shoulders, waists, backs, necks like they’re their lifelines? Because he doesn’t know if he can handle the intensity at this age. _But oh, oh my sweet, how I want to be consumed by you like a powdered delight._

 

A harsh whisper breaks through his thoughts. “Stop thinking. Stay here, now. Make up for the time lost and show me how-”

 

He stops him with a kiss, takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom down the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

He's glad the sun hasn't set already and the peachy hues of the afternoon still penetrate the glass of the window.

 

He's glad because the light seems to get absorbed by John’s skin and his silvery hair, especially when his skin is glowing with a thin film of sweat while he's thrusting between his legs.

 

Sherlock has wrapped himself around him and pulled him impossibly close so that he can feel even the most minute of movements and flexes while John chases his pleasure, buried in his skin, changing his hold on the covers every once in awhile when his arms start to hurt.

 

Sherlock did not take long. The endearments were enough to coil deep into his mind and make him roll his eyes, throw his head back and _howl_. Either in pleasure, in happiness or both, he hasn't had the time to think. Not when the bearer of the keys to his heart is looming over him and he can hear the small clicks of his dried throat.

 

He can feel him becoming more desperate, almost in the verge of tears, so he yanks his head with both hands and holds him there, makes him look him in the eyes and breathe the same air as him. John only looks at him shocked until he keens, rubs his face against Sherlock's stubble and then collapses, trembling.

 

His heart is either going to burst or get so big that his others organs will be squeezed against his bones and skin.

 

-

 

They stay like that for some time, underneath the covers, in the slowly greying room. Close, on their sides. Sherlock looking at John's face, sometimes stretching a fingertip to stroke John's chin or lips, while John has a hand curled over Sherlock's head, rubbing with his thumb the spot between his eyebrows, like trying to rub the worries away.

 

Sherlock scoots closer, deciding to mouth i love you’s to his jaw and chin. John laughs, laughs and sounds carefree. Like a teenager. It makes Sherlock's heart ache and _ache_.

 

When he starts speaking, Sherlock has to stop to let his jaw work freely.

 

“You know”, John starts quietly, a big toothy grin gracing his face, “I think I could get used to spending the rest of my life with you.”

 

 

 

 

  
  
-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This happens to be my first ever fic and my "return" to writing after an almost 5 year hiatus. I had promised theblackpearl that I'd finish one of my many tropes but never did so after watching TLD I thought I'd give it a try once again. And maybe torture myself because that was a hell of an emotional episode......
> 
> I really do hope you enjoyed this! I plan on continuing writing in the future so kudos, comments, any kind of feedback about mistakes or anything else, would be absolutely marvelous!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at watsonaesthete


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